


Christmas Party Confessional

by Lola_di_Penates



Series: CPC verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Confident Harry Potter, Gay Harry, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Long Shot, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, One Shot, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slashy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23627332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola_di_Penates/pseuds/Lola_di_Penates
Summary: Harry didn’t plan on making any declarations on the night of the Ministry of Magic’s terribly mediocre Christmas party. But then again, he didn’t plan on falling in love with Draco Malfoy, either.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: CPC verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710799
Comments: 28
Kudos: 150





	Christmas Party Confessional

**Author's Note:**

> Tempted to write some random one shots based on this very, very long one shot. Please let me know if I should bother.

From time to time, Harry Potter admitted to himself that there were perks to being the youngest Head of the Auror office in over a century. Unfortunately, the Ministry of Magic Christmas party of 2008 was not one of those times. As soon as he had shed himself of his cloak and stepped into the Ministry’s dedicated event space, he had realised that the night would inevitably be full of compliments regarding his recent appointment, to which he would unintentionally respond in such an awkward fashion that he wished he could _stupify_ himself in the face and wear his invisibility cloak for the remainder of the night. 

After the War, and upon the cessation of immediate threats to his life, Harry had been able to reflect on the fact that he was very much an introvert. Large events didn’t favour him. Unfortunately, the Heads of Office were expected to attend such Ministry events with enthusiasm, and although Harry socialised with people within his Department and maintained relatively normal friendships (he wasn’t sure Luna could ever be described as truly normal), he just wasn’t a _people_ person.

He desperately wished Ron and Hermione hadn’t declined the invitation for tonight. Attending a Healer appointment for their soon-to-be-born second child was probably a decent excuse, Harry reasoned, however it complicated things. Harry had reached such an advanced level of best-friendship with Hermione and Ron that they could literally never feel uncomfortable in each others’ presence. Ron could always be relied upon to make the small-talk more bearable and Hermione, well, Harry _swore_ she could read his mind. There really wasn’t another witch or wizard in this building that Harry could feel entirely comfortable chatting mindlessly to over a questionable canapé. 

Except.

The thought came to him as he smiled, a little forcefully at a waiter as he accepted a full champagne flute from a silver-gilded tray and turned to face the remainder of the room. His eyes, almost immediately (and wholly involuntarily, Harry thought) found the back of a pale blonde and meticulously groomed head. Equal parts aristocratic and impressive, with just the slightest hint of obsessive-compulsive. 

Had Harry reflected on his internal monologue pertaining to Draco Malfoy’s appearance, he might have described the man as _beautiful_. But Harry vehemently pushed those thoughts out of his mind as he swallowed half the flute at once and went to find some of his colleagues to talk to. Preferably ones that didn’t stir up uncomfortable feelings. 

~.~

If Harry had to think about where it all began he would have said Madam Malkins. But the practical answer is that it started in late 2005, with a fight (typical, really) in the offices of the Daily Prophet.

The fight wasn’t really his fault, Harry reasoned. Even if it was, he was _entirely_ justified in his reactions considering the situation at hand. At the time, he had been in the thick of organising a handful of unruly undercover Aurors to simultaneously build a case against a group of international Felix Felicis smugglers and the Welsh national quidditch team. The case, which had been two years in the making, was coming to a head with the 2006 Quidditch World Cup on the near horizon. Harry had already been managing the relationship with the International Quidditch Federation and its long list of stakeholders. The last thing Harry wanted was to suddenly be responsible for managing a leak to the Daily Prophet. 

Undercover Aurors and bureaucrats were tricky enough. Journalists, in Harry’s opinion, were a whole other breed of difficult. 

When his predecessor had requested that he _pacify_ a situation, Harry assumed that it meant he was being sent back to the field. Unfortunately for Harry, it actually meant quickly and quietly stopping the Daily Prophet from printing a story. A story that would have simultaneously alerted the smugglers to the operation, and named three of his undercover operatives.

As it turned out, it was not an uncommon occurrence to have to convince the Daily Prophet and its somewhat injudicious reporters to not blow their cover on an entire operation. Harry was on his way to learning that, despite the logical belief that wizarding criminals were their adversaries, the Daily Prophet was the true nemesis of all Aurors.

He wasn’t sure whether it was the anger of potentially having two years worth of work blown or the anxiety of having to manage three new candidates for witness protection which made him as highly strung as he was that afternoon. Whichever it was, Harry’s fuse was exceptionally short by the time he had entered the offices of the Daily Prophet’s Sports Editor.

Vince Grange was unsurprisingly unsympathetic to Harry’s demand that the story be abandoned. Mr Grange might have been an amicable person outside of his job, Harry reasoned, but that day he was insufferable. No sooner had Harry mentioned the issue of the story before he launched into a monologue for the _freedom of the press_ , and the _wizard’s right to know,_ and the lack of _transparency_ in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement which the people were _crying out_ to understand. Harry didn’t listen to most of it because all he seemed to hear was _economic imperative_. He was also acutely aware that Mr Grange was trying to stall him, and Harry was having none of it.

After numerous interruptions, Harry had managed to get Mr Grange to owl the printing department to pull the story. It wasn’t without pain and suffering, however. Mr Grange had insisted that Harry explain to the relevant reporter why his maiden exposé had been scrapped. 

Harry was prepared to deal with an irritated reporter when he stalked down the hall to find office number seven. He wasn’t prepared for Draco Malfoy.

“Of course you would scrap _my_ story, Potter,” Malfoy snapped, bitterly. “I should have expected the quintessential overachiever to swoop in at the last moment to remind me that I am unworthy.”

“Believe it or not, your mild disappointment pales in comparison to the difficulty of forcing three Aurors into witness protection, Malfoy,” Harry retorted, waves of hot irritation washing over him. It was so _Malfoy_ to think of wasted career opportunities before people’s safety. 

Malfoy snorted (in a quite un- _Malfoyish_ way, Harry thought). “Thanks to you Potter, I’m quite used to disappointment.”

Harry had meant to say something more enlightened about making more honourable choices and avoiding adverse consequences. But Draco Malfoy had an inexplicable knack for getting under his skin, and making his psyche revert back to fifteen-year-old, reckless Harry.

“Get used to it,” Harry replied. “I can’t imagine someone like you reverting to ethical journalism anytime soon.”

“If you insist, I can volunteer to write the weekly Harry Potter trivia questions,” Malfoy said, contemptuously. “I’m sure that’s what you consider to be legitimate reporting.”

Harry’s face flushed at the insult. Those “facts” were barely true, at best. He had a sneaking suspicion Draco Malfoy had been writing them for years. It would certainly explain how half of Wizarding England believed he had a nipple piercing.

“It’s not my job to give the Daily Prophet any ideas for it’s questionable articles, Malfoy” Harry snapped, “it’s only my job to stop you from endangering people’s lives.”

 _Again_. Harry thought, but decided against it as Malfoy’s face stiffened and pale grey eyes grew dark. 

“How _very fortunate_ for us,” Malfoy sneered and for a moment, Harry was transported back to another time, another office with another Malfoy and a diary, a sock and a miserable house elf.

The parallels were apparent. The soft, imperious voice. The straight-backed, aristocratic posture. The haughty (albeit furious) gaze. Those things were as much apparent in this Malfoy as the Malfoy that stood in Dumbledore’s office in 1993. 

Harry wouldn’t come to appreciate the intricacies and the differences in one Draco Malfoy until months later. By the time of the 2008 Christmas Party debacle, he swore he couldn’t see the similarities at all. 

~.~

Draco Malfoy found his antithesis in the maze of colourful canapés, downing another self-refilling champagne flute. Later, it would strike Draco that this sight was slightly tragic. Harry Potter was the unneeded hero in the midst of a brilliantly rebuilt world.

He didn't go looking for Potter, he swore to himself. Potter found him, as he usually did, although it was somewhat strange that it was Draco's feet moving, and Potter's that were stationary. To Draco, it seemed that Potter was forever _doing something_ wholesome and proactive, and seeing him nervously sink flutes of sub-par sparkling wine, was somewhat disconcerting.

“What insult have you got for me today?” Potter greeted him, smile slightly wonky.

Draco did a quick assessment of the situation. Potter’s suit looked relatively unscathed but his eyes were slightly glassy and cheeks flushed. On a scale of sober to needing immediate evacuation, Potter was sitting precariously on the fence between happy-go-lucky and unable to apparate. Of course, it was easy to make such assessments when Draco was stone-cold sober. 

“Good evening to you too, Potter,” Draco replied, nodding an eager, canapé-holding waitress onwards. It felt _wrong_ for Potter to be like this. 

Potter said nothing, and simply looked down at his drink with a stoic expression. Draco approximated that without intervention, Potter wouldn’t be doing anything worth watching tonight. Except, perhaps, falling over his own feet, which Draco would much rather have watched from a safe distance.

Unfortunately for Draco Malfoy, Potter was never at a _safe distance_. Or, if he was, somehow Draco's eyes found him without being told to. At various points that very night, his eyes had unwillingly found themselves peeled off the wallpaper he was determined to stare at, and drifting over to Potter's location at the back of the room, hidden by the wall-to-wall, sparkly tinsel and being harassed by both important Ministry officials and pushy waiters.

“Caviar blini?” a waitress asked, sidling up right on cue. 

Draco noticed that Harry had arranged his face with the usual polite, public facing façade. 

“No, thank you,” he said, smiling benignly at the dark-haired waitress.

“Are you sure?” she countered. “Or I can find you something else you might feel like?” 

The words were innocent enough, Draco reasoned. But the tone was suggestive, and his irritation prickled, irrationally hot over his skin.

Harry looked a little stunned. Draco thought this was strange because if he had to hazard a guess, he would have thought this wouldn’t have been an out of the ordinary experience for the hero of the wizarding world. A hundred people in that very room would have gladly licked Harry’s shiny, black shoes at that very moment. 

“Er, no thank you,” Harry said, as his left hand fiddled with the stem of his glass nervously.

“You know, I’m not really supposed to say this while I’m on shift-” the waitress started, smiling wryly.

Draco Malfoy rarely did anything spontaneous, which was why even his own conscious mind couldn't comprehend its decision to quickly sidle up to Potter, before he could hear the feeble response about to spill from his mouth, and save him from both a pushy waitress and himself.

“I do apologise for interrupting,” Draco said, completely unapologetically, over the mumble that spilled out of Potter's mouth. Potter turned slightly to face him, as if to question his authority to speak over the boy-that-lived, but really, at what point in time had Draco Malfoy ever cared about Harry Potter's authority? Perhaps only once, and that was beneficial in getting himself a pardon from Azkaban.

“What can I get for you, Sir?” The waitress replied, her smooth voice tinged with annoyance. 

“I’m afraid that I’m terribly allergic to caviar,” Draco said, “would you mind removing _those_ from my presence?” he finished, nodding toward the plate balanced on her right hand. 

Draco forcefully smiled. He rarely ever smiled, and he envisioned the strained version of his least-favourite expression being hardly welcoming. Good. If he repulsed enough people with his display of clearly faked kindness, perhaps he could negate the people-attracting aura Potter seemed to exude.

She looked at the blini uncertainly, and then frowned at him. “I’ll come back with something more suitable.”

Potter breathed a sigh of relief as the long, dark hair and obscenely high heels walked away.

“There’s no way someone as pretentious as you is allergic to caviar, Malfoy,” Potter said, observant to a fault as usual.

“You didn’t come to hide amongst the curtains to avoid waiters then, Potter?” Draco countered, smirking. “You can thank me later.”

Potter shrugged. “I am terribly antisocial.”

“You’ve got an awfully social job for an anti-social being, Potter,” Draco retorted.

Potter nodded and stared at his glass for a moment longer. Then he rounded on Draco Malfoy, glassy, green eyes piercing under the mop of perpetually messy hair. Draco’s stomach lurched. He wondered whether he really was allergic to caviar.

“Want to eat a kebab on a rooftop?” Harry asked.

~.~

Harry had to admit, it was his own fault that Draco Malfoy had ended up as his colleague.

Harry had heard it was good practice to keep your friends close and your enemies closer and it was similarly good for the Ministry to keep someone as conniving and convincing as Draco Malfoy out of the media industry and under close watch. As an added bonus, Malfoy ended up being extremely good at managing the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s PR.

Harry’s great idea had come to him after a year managing multiple leaks at the Daily Prophet (both Malfoy and un-Malfoy related - the two categories were the only ones that mattered). He was both sick of the responsibility and enjoying his verbal spars with the feature reporter too much and felt as if the reigns needed to be bequeathed to someone more adept at dealing with journalists in a full time capacity.

The Department Head was initially stunned at his suggestion. Harry conceded that requesting high level security clearance for a former Death Eater was pushing it, even for him. But then again, the benefit of being the Chosen One was that his judgment was rarely ever seriously questioned. After that, all he had to do was convince Malfoy that working for the Ministry was a more prestigious career than consistently trying to undermine it. 

“Is this offer conditional or did you actually manage to get permission from the Department to hire someone like me?” Malfoy smirked, although he looked slightly off-centre.

Harry had revelled in the spontaneity of it all. Over the course of his year-long mission to spoil the profit margins of the Daily Prophet, his favourite time of day had become the inevitable verbal battle with his favourite high-school nemesis.

But even Draco Malfoy couldn’t have predicted the offer that Harry had put on the table that morning, and there was something so satisfying about catching him completely off-guard.

Of course, Harry had no idea the kind of money the Prophet was paying their reporters. But the Ministry had a certain _appeal_ that Harry knew Malfoy couldn’t resist. That is to say, Lucius Malfoy had worked at the Ministry for many years, and until recently, it had been a career opportunity completely out of reach to the prodigal son. 

“Actually, I created the position myself,” Harry said, idly picking up a paper weight from Malfoy’s desk. “I thought that someone who works within the shadowy ranks of the media machine is more likely to be capable of managing it.”

“And who was managing it before?” Draco Malfoy asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Me,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I came here for fun did you?”

Malfoy sniggered. “You can’t have been very successful at managing the media, Potter. Your strike rate with me is only about fifty percent.”

“Actually, my strike rate is very good with everyone except you,” Harry said, anticipating the response, “which is why you were my recommendation for this role.” He dropped the paperweight back onto the desk with a flourish.

Malfoy raised both eyebrows in restrained surprise. “Something about keeping your enemies close?”

“Something like that,” Harry said, smiling in spite of himself. He plucked the folded piece of parchment out from the inner pocket and levitated it across to Malfoy’s left hand with a non-verbal incantation.

“At least pretend to consider it, won’t you?” Harry said, turning to walk out of the office.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, long fingers enclosing themselves around the parchment. “If I consider it, will I be working with you? Or working _for_ you?”

Harry turned and leant on the doorframe momentarily and sighed. “Does it make a difference?”

~.~

As it turned out, it did make a difference. Firstly, because Malfoy simply refused to take the job unless he reported directly to the Department Head, at which point, Harry had considered just withdrawing the offer. The Department held a certain belief that because Harry was taking a risk on a known offender, he should be responsible for managing his conduct. 

Secondly, it was worth Harry’s time convincing the Department otherwise because instead of sitting on his rooftop, eating a kebab and enjoying the benefits of a warming charm with a subordinate, Harry was now sitting on a rooftop doing such things with a colleague. A subtle, but important difference in the eyes of the Ministry’s ethics committees at least.

“Even for a terribly antisocial person, this is outrageous, Potter,” Malfoy said as Harry flopped down on the synthetic grass covering his rooftop terrace. Given his slightly intoxicated state and his giddiness from the delicious feeling of the warming charm, his drying attempt had only partially worked. He frowned and tried again, willing the plastic to dry out enough for him to avoid getting his only nice suit wet. 

Kebab beside him, he gestured for Malfoy to take a seat somewhere on the expanse of green plastic. 

“Surely someone like you can afford chairs, Potter,” Malfoy sniffed disdainfully, looking down at him.

Harry grinned involuntarily. “My rooftop, my rules, Malfoy,” he said, “sit yourself down you snobby prat and eat your kebab.”

Malfoy looked terribly uncomfortable with this suggestion and for a moment, Harry wondered whether he was just going to apparate right off the rooftop into the oblivion. Harry dearly hoped not. He was at least somewhat aware that eating kebabs on a rooftop in the middle of winter was probably certifiably insane.

To Harry’s relief, Malfoy attempted to smooth out a patch of grass and sat gingerly beside him, back leaning against the brick wall in the same fashion as Harry’s.

“This is terribly uncouth, Potter,” he drawled, picking at the top of his kebab with his long fingers and sniffing it delicately.

Harry laughed. The whole sight of a Malfoy on _his_ rooftop with the most unrefined, greasy and delicious kebab in London was something he thought he would never see.

“Well I’m not _couth_ ,” he said, taking a bite out of his own kebab. 

“That doesn’t make sense, Potter,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. He picked out a piece of lamb and chewed on it thoughtfully. “This is truly awful.”

Harry swallowed a chunk of kebab. “You’re not eating it right,” Harry said, “you have to eat it as a whole, not pick it apart like a vulture.”

“I resent that comparison,” Malfoy said, shooting him a glare. “And you have sauce on your lip. If anyone is an animal here it isn’t me.”

Harry licked his lips.

He noticed that Malfoy swallowed. Hard.

Harry grinned.

~.~

Ron and Hermione were somewhat perplexed at Harry’s choice of new work colleague. To be fair, Harry didn’t really understand it himself.

“Well, he’s very good at it,” Harry pointed out for the twentieth time. “Someone has finally convinced the Prophet to run stories about something other than the Ministry’s incompetence.”

“He must be very persuasive,” Hermione said, frowning slightly.

“That’s because he’s a slimy git,” Ron chuckled, grabbing his field bag from the table. “See you later, Harry.”

Harry’s stomach lurched at the sight of Ron, dressed in his Auror robes and about to step out of the door to do real, practical work. He missed that thrill. Having an office job had made him feel useless, even if the tactical aspect of Auror work was just as critical as having feet on the ground. 

“Be careful,” said Hermione, sticking her head out of her back door to kiss her husband goodbye.

Harry knew she said that every night. It had probably lost a bit of its meaning by now. He glanced at the clock - 9pm. He yawned. The shift work element of field Auror work was something Harry didn’t miss.

Harry sat back on the couch and sipped his mead. Hermione’s self refilling charm automatically applied itself to his cup.

“You be careful too, Harry,” Hermione said, giving him a knowing look from the kitchen.

“With what?” Harry asked, oblivious.

“Your feelings,” she replied, setting a charm to the dishes in the kitchen sink and flopping herself down in the opposite armchair, a knowing eyebrow raised.

Harry choked on his drink. “What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Harry. You know as well as I do that your _interest_ in Draco Malfoy goes beyond a healthy respect for his work ethic.”

“I’m not-” Harry stammered slightly, his chest feeling constricted.

Hermione’s eyebrows almost receded into her hairline.

“It’s not like that, Hermione!” he insisted, running his free hand through the birds’ nest mop that habituated itself on his head.

Hermione said nothing, but pursed her lips slightly. Harry knew this tactic well. It was a ploy to keep him talking.

It worked.

“I’m not-” he started again, slightly panicked, “you _know_.”

She cocked her head slightly.

“I’m not _gay_ , Hermione,” he said at last, putting his mead down on the table. His left hand joined his right in attempting to tear out pieces of his hair.

“Okay, Harry,” she said, simply. Infuriatingly, Harry had thought.

Ron poked his head back through the door. 

“Sorry, I forgot my badge,” he said, with what Harry knew to be a feigned nonchalance. “So wait, Harry’s not gay? I’m disappointed. I thought we knew him better than that, Hermione.”

Harry swore he almost suffered a cardiac arrest (Hermione would later tell him that he was being overly dramatic).

Hermione shrugged. “I wouldn’t rule us out yet, Ron.”

“Stop picking on me!” Harry wailed, eyes darting back and forth between his best friends. 

Hermione looked at Ron sympathetically. Ron looked at Harry with what looked horribly like pity.

“So we’ve suffered through an entire year of ranting, raving and general discussion about Draco Malfoy for absolutely no reason?” Ron asked as he picked up his badge which was suspiciously placed right next to where he had gotten his bag not five minutes earlier.

Harry didn’t have a response. He just looked incredulously between them.

“I hope you’re not his superior, Harry,” Hermione said thoughtfully, “inter-office relationships between superiors and subordinates are a breach of the Ministry’s ethics policy.”

“I’m not-” Harry stuttered pathetically, “that is, we’re not-” 

Ron sighed, “today, mate. I actually do have work tonight.”

“I’m not sleeping with Draco Malfoy!” Harry exclaimed, a bit louder than expected. He really never envisaged he would have ever said that sentence out loud.

Ron smirked. “Not yet, you’re not.”

“Ron, that’s unhelpful,” Hermione chastised, as she bit her lip trying to contain her chagrin.

Harry groaned. Hermione flopped herself down on the couch next to him and flung her arms around his neck.

“When you work it out, we’re here, Harry,” she mumbled into his neck.

Harry heard Ron laugh as he shut the back door behind him.

~.~

Draco had to admit, the garlic content of the kebab did make the dry meat taste much better than first expected. He chewed thoughtfully as he watched Harry devour his. 

Harry Potter was so _messy_ , Draco thought. A sign of a poor upbringing, as Mother would say. Draco knew that Potter was raised by muggles, but he didn’t know much more than that. He knew there were rumours that the boy-who-lived had experienced a less than pleasant childhood considering his infamy in the wizarding world, but it wasn’t something Draco had ever even considered raising with his coworker.

It wasn’t as if Draco and Harry were _friends_ , anyway. To be fair, Draco had never had a friend close enough to impart one’s darkest secrets to. It wasn’t a very Slytherin trait to speak with such candour. 

Upon reflection, Draco wasn’t exactly sure what Potter was to him. He wasn’t his friend, or his enemy, or even just his colleague. Harry Potter was, all things considered, the one thing that had stayed consistent for Draco’s entire life. Whether it was insulting him or conspiring with him to eat kebabs on a rooftop, Harry Potter had never changed. He was still the slightly reckless, spontaneous and messy Harry Potter that had a certain disregard for his own safety and an untameable hero complex that Draco had always known. 

That was comfortable.

The uncomfortable thing was how Draco felt about Harry Potter, which was definitely not aligned with his usual proclivity for self preservation. 

The fact was, Draco had stewed about this issue for the better part of two years. Unlike Harry Potter, Draco was, even in 2008, surprisingly self-introspective. That also meant he was prone to suppressing his feelings. The problem was, he’d never felt as awfully out of control as he did in that moment.

It was as if Draco Malfoy was connected to Harry Potter by some kind of inexplicable gravitational pull. Like a satellite moon that couldn’t escape his own, self-destructive orbit.

It was painful.

To be fair, he had nothing to compare it to. Mostly because Draco Malfoy had never been able to summon enough fucks to give about another human being in a romantic sense. He was, in all reality, a selfish prat. Which meant that the kind of undeniable, irresistible obsession with following Potter’s every move made him so uncomfortable. It was like being hopelessly addicted to something and having no chance of rehabilitation. Harry Potter was just _everywhere_.

It got to the point where Draco Malfoy felt so hopeless about the entire situation he considered just changing it. Acting on instinct. Taking risks.

In 2008, he was 28 years old. Pre-30. The perfect time to take risks, according to the advice column in the Prophet, at least. Although Draco supposed that the Prophet probably meant things like changing careers or starting a business or taking up quidditch professionally. Not telling your former enemy that you might not hate them anymore - or worse.

Then again, Draco was not the courageous one. He had a habit of sitting back and waiting for things to happen.

“Do you think it wise to play with fire on a rooftop covered by grass?” Draco asked, eyeing Harry as he _incendio’d_ the kebab wrapper.

“It’s synthetic, Malfoy,” Harry sighed, rolling his eyes.

Draco looked incredulously at him. “Who _fakes_ grass?”

“The lazy and the impoverished,” Harry retorted, throwing the charred remains of the kebab wrapper at him.

Draco batted it away.

“Do you need another drink?” Potter asked, flourishing a wine bottle, seemingly from thin air.

“I don’t drink,” Draco said simply, staring at his hands.

“Why?” Potter asked as he uncorked the wine anyway and poured himself a generous glass. 

Draco sighed. “It makes me numb.”

“Does that scare you?” Harry asked.

“No,” Draco said simply, as he reached his spare hand into his jacket pocket, “I just don’t want to forget.”

“Forget what?” Harry asked, leaning in closer. For what, Draco wasn’t sure but he felt slightly intoxicated by the closeness despite being totally sober.

“Never mind,” he breathed, fingers wrapping around the small, square packet and pulling it out.

Harry sat back up and looked at him quizzically. “You know that is truly awful for your health, right?” 

Draco arched an eyebrow and lit the cigarette. “We all have our vices.”

~.~

Two months before the auspicious Christmas Party, Harry had turned up on Ron and Hermione’s doorstep. He was completely bedraggled by rain, had just finished an awful day at work and was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

In summary, he felt obscenely fragile.

“You complete idiot, Harry, you’re going to catch a cold,” Hermione had chastised as she pulled him inside, out of the rain and blasted him with a drying charm. 

“You look miserable, mate,” Ron added, astute as always.

“Thanks,” Harry responded listlessly.

Hermione gasped his hand and led him over to the couch. “Sit,” she commanded.

She groaned slightly as she sat back on the couch herself, struggling under the weight of her protruding stomach. “Ron, do me a favour and check that Rose is still sleeping?”

Ron gave Harry a worried once-over and disappeared up the staircase.

“Ron told me about Perkins,” she said. Harry buried his face in his hands. The disobedience of a direct order meant immediate dismissal, they all knew that. But Harry felt sick to his stomach when he had delivered that news to Perkins. He’d never imagined when he joined the Aurors at the tender age of seventeen that he would be responsible for firing people.

“It was his own fault, Harry,” Ron said, appearing on the bottom step of the spiral staircase. “He knew that head office hadn’t authorised it and he did it anyway.”

“I suppose so,” Harry agreed, face still in his hands. “But how many direct orders have we disobeyed in our lifetimes, Ron?”

“Point taken,” Ron said, flopping into the opposite armchair.

“What did Malfoy have to say about it?” Hermione asked gently.

“What about Malfoy,” Harry snapped, whipping his head up to face Hermione. He wasn’t in the mood to be berated about his Malfoy problem on a day that was already a complete mess.

“Easy, mate,” Ron said as he raised his hands in a motion that indicated for him to _calm down_.

“I only meant to ask what his take on the media release would be,” Hermione continued, trying to soothe him by placing a hand on his back.

“I don’t know, I haven’t had a chance to speak to him about it,” Harry said crossly, shrugging away from her touch.

“Harry,” she said softly, eyes beseeching. 

Harry turned away from her and found Ron staring at him with a similar expression.

It was far too much. “What?!” he exclaimed. 

Harry’s frustration had unfortunately reached a breaking point. He was tired and irritable and completely overwhelmed by his irrational feeling of guilt for firing Perkins, his persistent self doubt about his ability to run the Auror office and his utterly nonsensical and insatiable desire for his former nemesis-turned-colleague. He had an irrational desire to pick up a beater’s bat and bash some bludgers or fight someone or set fire to the stack of unauthorised Harry Potter biographies sitting in the window of Flourish and Blotts.

Hermione and Ron didn’t say anything. They just stared at him in a way that read _concern for mental stability_.

“Stop it!” Harry yelled as he jumped to his feet, briefly forgetting that his decibel level would probably wake up the sleeping two-year-old on the second floor.

Ron’s eyes flickered briefly to the roof.

“Harry-” Hermione started.

“Enough with the questioning about Malfoy!” Harry exclaimed. “We _work_ together, we hate each other, we’re not even _friends_ , we don’t even talk _that much_!”

Harry caught sight of himself in the mirror which hung above the fireplace opposite him. His eyes were wide, harried looking, like a frenzied animal. In short, he looked absolutely nuts. 

He stopped and sank back onto the couch. Merlin be damned. There was no denying it, Harry was absolutely screwed.

He groaned and put his face back into his hands.

“Fuck,” he murmured into his palms, “I’m in love with Draco _fucking_ Malfoy.”

“I’ll go get the firewhisky,” muttered Ron.

~.~

“No, but smoking will _actually_ kill you,” Harry argued, taking a sip of wine.

“Yes, and the overconsumption of alcohol will _actually_ give you liver cirrhosis,” said Draco, inhaling again on his cancer-stick.

“Why do you care anyway, Potter,” he asked, nonchalantly. He _incendio-d_ the butt of the cigarette and waved away the ash with his wand.

Harry swallowed deeply. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Harry had never seriously believed that years of smoking could actually make one cough up a lung. But he swore that Draco Malfoy almost did. It was the most uncivilised coughing fit Harry had ever seen. Harry thought it was deliciously unrefined.

“I’m sorry, what?” Draco squeaked incredulously, once he had regained his ability to breathe. 

“I’m not sure what else to say,” Harry said, matter of factly. “What does one usually say after a profession of admiration?”

Draco looked stunned. Harry actually had no idea how he proceeded with that conversation. The wine must have helped, he guessed, because he didn’t feel the choking sort of anxiety he sometimes did around Malfoy.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Draco replied after a minute. He still looked ridiculously shocked, an expression Harry was fairly sure Draco had never worn for this long. “I’ve never had it happen before. What do you say?”

“Me either,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I mean, no one has ever told me that they love me before.”

Draco scoffed. “Are you sure you are referring to yourself, Harry Potter? There’s only about seventy million witches and wizards globally who would profess their undying love for the saviour of the wizarding world.”

“Maybe you say “thank you?” Harry continued, ignoring the incredulity. 

Draco stared at him. “That’s terribly polite.”

“Yes, well I suppose politeness isn’t very _you_ , is it?” Harry continued, staring into space.

Draco shot him a sideways look. They fell silent for a moment.

“Why?” he whispered, looking down at his hands.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, throwing caution to the wind. “It makes absolutely zero sense. Don’t get me wrong, it would be much easier for me if I didn’t feel this way about someone who, until recently, I thought I had spent my whole life despising.”

“Then how do you know?” Draco pressed.

Harry felt somewhat hopeless at his response. “I just do, Draco.”

Malfoy said nothing. As usual, Harry fell into the trap of having an inexplicable need to fill the silence.

“It’s not like I tried to, believe me. But it’s just that I like talking to you and looking at you and being with you, and conjuring up questions I can to ask you at work that I secretly already know the answer to. Or finding you at these god-awful Ministry events because I feel comfortable with you in a way I don’t feel with anyone else. Or inviting you to my rooftop in the middle of winter to eat a kebab and divulge my persistent, unrequited feelings because I just can’t help but want to spend more of my time with you, even if it makes absolutely no fucking sense.”

“That’s very sugary sweet, Potter,” Draco said, his trademark smirk plastered on his face.

Harry sighed. “I know. Should we go back to verbal sparring?”

“In a minute,” Draco said, “you can keep telling me how ridiculously good looking I am first.”

Harry frowned. “I never said that!”

“I think you were just getting to that part,” Draco replied. 

“Prat.”

“But you do think I’m good looking, don’t you?” 

Harry narrowed his eyes and turned to face the blonde. “Well do you think I’m good looking?”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“Fine. Yes, I think you’re... _attractive_. In a conceited sort of way.”

Draco frowned. “I’m not conceited.”

Harry picked up one of Draco’s hands and held it, looking as deeply into the pale grey eyes as he could. 

“Draco Malfoy, this is _you_ we are talking about,” he said, voice thick with faux concern.

Draco dropped his hand immediately and scowled. “I think you should go back to the part where you compliment me.”

Harry laughed. This was surprisingly easy. It had definitely helped that Draco didn’t seem to want to apparate away from him, or recommend he book himself in for a stay at St. Mungos. He had even let Harry _touch_ him. In spite of himself, Harry wondered how much further he could push his luck.

“You are incorrigible, Draco.”

“Not true,” Draco sniffed. “I’m a reformed Death Eater, after all.”

“Yes well, thank Merlin for that,” Harry laughed again.

“On a serious note, Potter,” Draco said, arching an eyebrow again, “do you not think it’s somewhat problematic that I’m a reformed blood purist and you are...well, _you_?”

Harry bit his lip briefly. It was certainly something he had stewed about for weeks, months even. That he could even be on good terms with someone who, whether Harry liked it or not, had innocent blood on their hands. He hadn’t been planning on opening that Pandora’s box tonight, however. It just wasn’t that simple to explain.

Whether Draco Malfoy wanted to admit it or not, Harry knew he wasn’t that same person. He was still an arrogant prat, but he wasn’t _bad_. His secretary was a muggleborn for Merlin’s sake and Draco had _chosen_ her himself. Weirdly, they got along quite well, Harry thought. 

That being said, he was acutely aware that he didn’t know Draco that well. He didn’t see him every day when he went home to the Manor after work, he didn’t know how he spoke with his peers or his parents or even what he truly thought about the War. To be honest, Harry hadn’t stopped to think about it for long because he was on a totally unstoppable, one-way track to being obsessed with Draco Malfoy and nothing the man had done along that journey had dissuaded him in the slightest.

“I’m not asking you to marry me, Draco,” he joked, but somewhere inside him lurched a little at that thought. “I just needed to tell you. For my own sanity.”

Draco appraised him again.

“Look, I know it’s _problematic_ or _controversial_ or stupid, or whatever you think it is,” Harry said, pausing to gauge a reaction. Draco’s face remained stoic. “But whether I like it or not, I’m _drawn_ to you. I’m drawn to your intelligence and your sarcastic quick wit. I like you even though you’re stuck up and a bloody snob about food and you can’t just sit quietly and eat a kebab on a rooftop like a normal person.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“And I suppose you’re good looking and have great hair,” Harry said quickly, hoping this would make it seem like an afterthought.

Draco sighed and leaned back against the brickwork. “I know,” he said, grinning up at the sky.

Harry shoved him lightly on the side to protestations. “Careful Potter, this suit is expensive!”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Harry wasn’t sure what else was left to be said.

“You know I can’t say those things back to you,” Draco murmured. “I just can’t.”

“I know,” Harry whispered. “Not yet.”

Draco didn’t respond. Harry’s heart leapt at the thought. He also felt a bit dizzy, but that was probably the wine. Harry vowed never to underestimate the power of wine again.

“You’re going to regret saying all of this in the morning,” Draco said, almost sadly.

Harry shuffled over so he was sitting cross legged in front of him. Once again, he tested his luck and grasped the fine, aristocratic hands in his own. “I’m not drunk, you idiot.”

Draco looked at him disdainfully. “You’ve drunk three quarters of that bottle since we’ve been up here,” he said. But he didn’t remove his hands from Harry’s.

“Well, I’ve had practice,” Harry replied.

He leant forward slightly. The smell, the touch, the being so close to Draco Malfoy was as intoxicating as any alcohol Harry had consumed that night. His hands ached to reach across the gap between their faces and _touch_ him. They twitched unhelpfully. Malfoy pulled his hands back.

Harry sighed. This was infuriating. Fuck it.

“I want to-” Harry started, searching for permission somewhere within Draco’s eyes. They were so bloody close he had half a mind just to do it, but he didn’t want to discount the fact that he may have misread every single signal he had interpreted on that rooftop.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, feeling pathetically juvenile.

Draco stared at him for a second. He swallowed.

“I won’t stop you.”

Harry bit his lip. “That’s not consent, Draco.”

“Fine, if you want to.”

Harry sighed, but smiled. He didn’t want to take the risk and he had a feeling that if he could keep the conversation light hearted, it might not be a total failure of a night.

“No it’s okay. I don’t want to be weird or be _uncouth_ or whatever other improper iteration of a person I’m being at the moment-” he began as he pulled back to give Draco some breathing space. 

“For Merlin’s sake Potter,” Draco interrupted him. “I’m a Malfoy, I don’t bloody beg.”

“You know, you can call me by my first name if you want to-”

Harry didn’t finish that sentence because one second he was nervously fiddling with a piece of synthetic grass and the next second a warm, soft hand was cupping his chin and his cheek and hot lips were pressed roughly against his and his brain seemed to completely disintegrate in his skull. His free hand somehow found the back of Draco’s fine, blonde hair and pulled him impossibly closer as their lips parted briefly and Harry tasted cigarettes and garlic, both of which should have been off putting but somehow drew him in like nothing had before.

It was messy and desperate and probably not the best kiss Harry had ever given but _god_ there was something there that had never been there before. A spark, ignited in the act of pressing himself even closer to Draco that quickly became an out-of-control, burning need. Something that was totally incomparable and incapable of explanation. 

Draco’s hand moved from his cheek and Harry almost whimpered at the loss of the touch, but the fingers simply grasped the front of Harry’s jacket and pulled him back towards the brick wall. Responding so as not to break the kiss, Harry pushed forward, knees finding either side of Draco’s so he was quite literally sitting on top of him as Draco moaned deliciously into his mouth. 

Spurred on, Harry’s tongue brushed lightly against Draco’s as he deepened the kiss, touching, taking whatever he could from a moment in time that he had previously thought was downright impossible. It was so ridiculous and yet so fucking _right_ that all Harry could do was hope to Merlin that it wouldn’t be the last time because he needed this as much as (well, maybe not breathing) but at the very least his broomstick and friendship and meaningful employment.

Draco leant his head back against the brickwork, eyes looking skyward when they eventually came up for air. Harry couldn’t cope with having to face the reality that Draco might not have enjoyed the experience as much as he did, so he leant his face down and placed light kisses along Draco’s neck instead.

“This is _absurd_ ,” Draco murmured.

“Definitely,” Harry breathed into Draco’s shoulder, resting his forehead against the soft skin between neck and clavicle.

“Harry?” 

“Mhm?”

“You taste like garlic.”

“So do you, you idiot.”

“Whose idea was the kebabs?”

“You ate all of yours too!”

Draco sighed and lifted Harry’s face up to face his own.

“Can we do it again?” he asked, smirking.

“I thought Malfoy’s didn’t beg,” Harry replied, but he leaned in anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Tempted to write some random one shots based on this very, very long one shot. Please let me know if I should bother.


End file.
